"There, my men, there! We are sons of Fortune, and Fortune favors the bold. The sea is our slave, the storm our playfellow, death our delight! What others dare not think, we do."
"Hurrah! Long live Robert Barthelemy!" roared the whole band, tossing their caps into the air.
Twilight was gathering. In the cottage three angels, with clasped hands, were praying that God would bury in the depths of the ocean that evil monster, Robert Barthelemy, the terror of all travelers.
Darkness had closed in, the myriad stars of night were reflected from the surface of the sea. Forty-two ships, sailing at nearly equal distances from one another, appeared on the horizon. The wind was fair, the crews were sleeping quietly, the men watching from the mast-heads drowsily announced that a sail was in sight, the captains heard the words and turning over, fell asleep again.
The approaching vessel tacked for some time, then steered straight toward one of the ships in the middle of the fleet, the Triton.
Her captain was slumbering soundly in his hammock, when the mate entered and reported the approach of the craft.
"Salute him," said the commander, peevishly, drawing up the coverlet.
The approaching vessel stopped, and a boat put off in which sat six men, who rowed with vigorous strokes to the Triton. No one seemed disturbed by their approach. On their arrival, three men remained in their seats, while the three others climbed on deck.
One of the party inquired for the captain, with whom he had urgent business. The cabin where he slept was pointed out, and the speaker entered, the other two men remaining at the door.